A short fic for Shaina Rae (doesn’t appear to have a Tumblr—sorry I can’t @ you!) featuring a peculiar mission of Warden Alistair’s, and a nebulous appearance by their Hero, Lydia Amell. Hints vaguely at some content for “Here Lies the Abyss” in Inquisition, but nothing too concrete or spoilery. The happiest of holidays to you!
Long after the Vigil has passed to different hands, when the Hero of Ferelden’s old quarters are thick with dust, a man wearing a thick traveling cloak sneaks through the window.
The sound of Wardens at their dinner rises up from the hall beneath him. He moves with purpose, his footsteps sure. His target is an old desk; he goes to one knee behind it, glancing at the door, and takes a key from his pocket. The lock of the bottommost drawer gives way instantly. Inside, a small chest—untouched by the dust swimming in his sinuses—sits right where he expects it.
"Ha," he mutters, a wry smile turning his lips, and heaves the battered old thing into his lap, holding in a sneeze.
The papers inside are stored with great care—by order of date, the most recent at the top of the stack. Quite old now, of course. It has been some time since the Warden-Commander received letters here. The faded date on the topmost missive is Drakonis, 9:34 Dragon.
He shoots another glance at the door. By the state of this room, no one has dared disturb it in quite some time. The acting Warden-Commander—or are they truly the Warden-Commander now? He can never remember—must have taken quarters elsewhere. He can risk a quick jaunt down memory lane before he must be on his way.
(His bones—battered by years of taking hits from darkspawn—ache at the thought of traveling through the night, but he shushes them. It will be worth it to reach her sooner, even if she scolds him when he reaches her with a limp. Perhaps he’ll commandeer a horse.)
Still, though, he does the safe thing and retreats to the old bed, out of the line of sight of the door. There he sits, a cloud of dust rising around him, and shuffles through to the earliest letter. The ink is even more faded on this one, but his fingers tingle when he rustles the paper. He recognizes the particular feeling of her magic; she must have cast a spell to preserve the state of these, as much as they could be preserved.
The thought brings another smile to his face. She’ll be happy to have them back.
Kingsway, 9:31 Dragon
My dear Warden-Commander Amell,
It is my duty to inform you that the Deep Roads are deeply, terribly inhospitable this time of year—but you already knew that, didn’t you? Still, perhaps you’ve been above ground long enough to forget, so let me remind you: it smells wretched. Nothing worse for the appetite than fried, corrupted, giant spider guts. Everything, absolutely everything, is slimy. The rocks, the bedrolls, the tents. I suppose I should feel lucky I have a tent, though it does nothing for the smell. The leather. I ought to stop writing about this, or I’ll lose what lunch I managed to swallow.
Well, we all have our burdens. I must say, the smell is nothing compared to how much I miss you. I rather enjoyed our vacation from all things darkspawn-related after the archdemon fell. But. In Peace, Vigilance. I’ll muddle along somehow.
Speaking of peace, it doesn’t sound as if things are particularly peaceful at the Vigil. I beg you—be careful. I feel better when I’m between your fragile mage flesh and the various creatures who run at you brandishing swords. Please find some fresh new recruits to keep between you and all those blades. They might be so enthralled with the Hero of Ferelden that they won’t even mind the wounds they’re in for.
I hope we’ll be done with these tunnels before Firstfall. If luck is with us, I’ll see you soon.
Yours,
Alistair
A bench scrapes the stone far beneath him, and for a moment, Alistair strains to hear. Is that Oghren’s laugh? Is the dwarf still at the Vigil, after all this time? They have never been close, but he is having fits of nostalgia tonight, apparently. For a moment, he imagines striding down to the dining hall, peeking in, just to see—
But. 9:30 Dragon is far behind him. The memories have begun to fade, only a few standing out with perfect clarity: the mud always on his boots, the damp always in his socks, the dog always worming his way into the bedroll, Lydia’s sleepy smile. The mundane things, really, not the exact rhymes of a tree in the Brecilian forest or even the pitched rage of their confrontation with Loghain, no: just the endless travel, the happy pieces in between, all washed with the warmth of a hastily-built fire and a mage snoring softly in his arms at night.
Terrible times, but simpler. He is always horrified to realize he misses them.
He thumbs through the next few letters, searching for a distraction.
Guardian, 9:32 Dragon
My dear Lydia,
Do you think we could ever actually kill all the darkspawn? I was just thinking—hush, I know you’re laughing at me, and it’s not nice, not nice at all—that if we did manage to kill them all, then there would be no one to dig for the archdemons, yes? And then there would be no more Blight, and we would be free to retire to Rivain until the Calling kicked down our door. Could be a nice few decades, that’s all I’m saying. It might be worth looking into.
Those broodmothers you ran into—those are the key. Kill them, no new darkspawn. Then it’s just clean up. Simple, right? I suppose it would be some effort to mount such an offensive, and we don’t exactly have the numbers. Recruitment has truly died off. The last village we passed through barely even looked at my unit askance. I don’t think they like to remember us, truth be told. They like to remember you, certainly, with the wind in your hair casting the spell that felled the archdemon, but the reality of us is scarier, I think. I wish I had better news, but unless our luck turns, I won’t be bringing anyone new back to the Vigil. We can’t exactly justify conscripting with no Blight on the horizon, and no one is volunteering.
More glory for us, I suppose. Give my love to the dog. Mangy beast—he thinks I don’t know who stole half my socks over Wintermarch, but I do.
Yours, always,
Alistair
His fingers pause over the next missive. She made copies of her replies, of course, clever woman. This one starts with a particularly wry tone; he can imagine the twist of her mouth, the sound of her voice forming the words. It doesn’t matter how many years pass between the Fifth Blight and the present day. He misses her as ferociously now as he did when they first separated on assignment in 9:31, and he doubts that will ever change.
Drakonis, 9:32 Dragon
Warden Alistair,
The dog was happy to receive your regards. Even now, he warms himself in a nest of your stolen footwear, tongue lolling happily out of his mouth. To be a mabari, and so easily pleased by life’s simple offerings. When the paperwork piles particularly high, I wish he and I could trade places. Perhaps I ought to have asked Morrigan for shapeshifting lessons when I had the chance. (Don’t look so cross. That furrow in your brow is going to stick one day, you know, and then I’ll be allowed to tease you about your refined age.)
You’re right—we do not have the forces to mount such an offensive. A…different solution has occurred to me, but it will require years of tedious research. Undoubtedly, we should not get our hopes up about its success. We will be happier if we accept that our world will always have darkspawn, and always require sacrifice to kill them…but. Perhaps there is hope, my dear. I will tell you what I’ve learned when you return to the Vigil.
Be safe. The dog would be terribly sad if your work in the Deep went awry.
Love,
Lydia
That is his cue, he thinks, and he tucks the letters away into the knapsack at his feet. He replaces the old chest—it is too heavy for this journey, and she may yet return to these quarters someday, besides—and goes back to the window. For a moment, he stands, relishing the cool night air, the hint of rain on the breeze.
A horse, he thinks. A horse would suit. He can already imagine the standoff this imaginary creature will have with Lydia’s mabari when they meet. It will be a refined horse, he decides, a thing that is not at all tolerant enough to endure a mabari’s jests with more than a flick of its tail. He knows he is fooling himself, but he lets himself imagine it for a long moment: the fire washing over her face as she rises to her feet, her lips curving in a smile familiar as his sword, a mabari barking joyfully and a horse snorting with disdain in the indiscriminate wilderness where he goes to meet her now.
The vision fades. His bones remind him that there are miles to go, yet, till that happy reunion.
"Well," he murmurs. "Best get a move on, then."
He leaves the cold hearth—with the remains of a single mangled sock—behind him. Through the damp, through the chill, through his aching muscles and tired eyes, he marches. Sweet as the vision is, he knows that seeing her again will be a thousand times better.
